


To Prevent a Roman Holiday

by furorem



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nilfgaardian Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Canon, gay farmers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem/pseuds/furorem
Summary: In which Geralt gets the happy ending he wished for. Just not the way he imagined.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Normally I don’t do this but I felt like sharing my thought process. Recently I started rewatching ‘Spartacus’. Which is a brilliant show; up there with Black Sails in terms of connecting historical problems with current ones & the metaphorical examination of ostracisation. Unbelievable progressive for a show that’s 10 years old and was originally marketed towards a male audience. Do yourself a favour and watch Spartacus (with a grain of salt) if you can bear explicit (full-frontal male and female) nudity and violence.   
> Anyway. While I was watching, I thought: Spartacus = Roman Empire = Nilfgaard is an allusion to the Roman Empire = therefore slavery? What if Jaskier is a Nilfgaardian and Geralt never travelled with him, went through the whole saga without him, only to be caught and sold as a slave in Nilfgaard instead of his “real end”? So to cut a long story short - enjoy this weird Roman/Gay Farmer AU, born out of my fondness for ‘Spartacus’, in which I shamelessly use the poetic way they write dialogue for my Nilfgaardian and in which Geralt gets the happy ending he wished for. Just not the way he imagined. 
> 
> Title is a reference to Lord Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’. 
> 
> For those who haven’t read the books – very slight spoilers due to the nature of the story.

**To Prevent a Roman Holiday**

In the end no pleas no bargains:

it’s your own humanity you’ll have to drag

over and over, piece by piece

page after page 

out of the dark

-Adrienne Rich

and:

Adapt yourself to the things among which your lot has been cast and love sincerely the fellow creatures with whom destiny has ordained that you shall live.

-Marcus Aurelius

**Chapter 1**

The people at the market were especially chatty that day; a strange energy permeated the plaza, born out of the excitement of its occupants. The Nilfgaardian noble women, many dressed in the royal colours – black and gold – talked in hushed tones, heads hidden behind their elaborate fans, only their carefully crafted coiffure (and wigs) – decorated with jewellery and gold – visible. The occasional giggle reached his ears. Strangely enough, more people than usual were attending the monthly slave auction. In the crowd that had gathered on the sandy ground in front of the wooden platform, many seemed to be here for personal amusement rather than business. A good thing. It meant less potential buyers. If it weren’t for the persistent buzz of conversation that began to stoke his nervousness. There had been many times in his life post-war, where he’d had cursed his existence as the fallen from grace spy, troubadour and philanthropist (many times where he was glad for it, too) but that hot day in the sand covered, of perfume stinking plaza, he truly regretted his status. If only he knew what had the attending crowd so damned excited. If only he still had high ranking friends that could’ve told him.

The mood spread like wildfire and he could only barely hold back to tap his foot or gnaw his fingernails. He looked around, trying to see if he could spot a familiar face and, indeed, there were a few; more than half of them hated his guts and the rest tried to avoid him lest they’d be caught with him and be dragged down by his reputation. Just in that moment, Valdo Marx, who stood a few paces before him, turned around and caught his eyes. Realising who he was looking at, he smiled a big smile, showing all his perfect white teeth, clearly meant to be menacing. To him it was a mere annoyance, like when Saskia came barging into his room in the mornings. Ignoring Marx, he turned his head away, hoping to dissuade his – rival for lack of better terms – from waving at him or, dear Gods worse, talk to him. And the Gods must have heard him.

Vincent, renowned slave trader of Baccalà, walked onto the stage, his heavy boots booming against the wood and a hush fell over the mass of people. He stopped at the other end, turning his scarred face, his bald head, towards the spectators and buyers underneath him. It was not hard to imagine that the ugly son of a whore felt superior in that moment, savouring his short-lived power. A jerky hand motion. Some people leaned forward on their toes to get a better look at the line of slaves, brought in from the Northern Kingdoms, the South and beyond the Blue Mountains, a chain around their necks connecting them to one another and making it impossible to flee, shuffling onto the stage. Another man, unfamiliar, was last, but his motions were anything but unfamiliar. With practiced ease, he pushed each slave down on their knees.

As always, he could taste bile in the back of his throat at seeing the way these bastards treated the other, human and non-human, beings. For a nation priding itself on being more civilised than its neighbours, Nilfgaard certainly behaved more barbaric than them. He tried to rein in the anger he felt, knowing that if the wrong person were to see, it would only make his life and the next hours harder than necessary. Not to mention cloud his judgement. And if there was one thing he needed, it was a clear head. Quickly he assessed the slaves: heads bowed, naked filthy bodies showing bruises and blood, hands bound behind their backs. Nothing out of the ordinary. And no reason for such a great crowd. Another quick glimpse to Marx and some other notorious bidders revealed their calm, almost bored, manner. It became clear to him that something else would be happening. This was only the beginning of the auction and although it pained him to keep quiet and do nothing, his gut told him to do so. And how right he was.

Grinding his teeth through the whole ordeal of watching these poor souls being sold to these swines was more difficult than he’d thought, but he managed. He was encouraged by Marx, who turned his curly head now and then to throw him a condescending look over his shoulder as if asking, ‘What? Not enough coin today?’ Gods how he despised him.

By the time Vincent’s unpleasant voice yelled, ‘Sold!’ for the last time, the sun had reached its zenith and was on its way to setting, leaving half the plaza in shadows and merely the platform illuminated. The artist in him could appreciated the theatrics this caused. A plump woman next to him whispered to her companion, ‘Finally. My eyes long to see the reason for sore feet.’ It was good to have one’s suspicions confirmed. And it was good he’d listened to his gut, because the moment they brought the main attraction onto the platform, announced it boisterous and proud, he knew the Gods were with him. His stomach dropped so far down, it felt like it left his body. Fuck. These bastards – some way or another, the how unimaginable to him – had caught a witcher. The stuff of legends, a dying breed. Probably the last of his kind. And then Vincent announced that it was none other than the White Wolf himself. 

No wonder everyone had flocked to the auction, was salivating at the sight before them. Fuck, fuck fuck, _fuck_. He tried not to show his panic, his disgust, in case one of his competitors saw. They knew him, they knew what he would do. And he knew what they intended to do if they got their hands on a witcher, what future awaited the man on the platform, chained, hair matted, browned by the dirt, scars littering his malnourished body, eyes that swept lifelessly over the crowd, already resigned to his fate.

He swallowed. This would be expensive. It would probably bring him to the brink of ruin. But it didn’t matter. He knew what he had to do. He observed as the starting bid was announced, observed as they fought like wild dogs, driving up the price until all but Valdo Marx stopped bidding. And that’s when he raised his hand while a murmur went through the crowd.

In the end, it was too much, far too much. He’d won (and he would never forget the angry red face of Marx as he stormed off) but he had to excuse himself, tell Vincent to hold on to the witcher for half an hour longer to get the money from the bank. Vincent gave him until dusk, a measly 20 minutes judging by the height of the sun, or else the witcher would go to Marx for half the price. So he raced through the city, thankful to himself for his adventurous youth, skipped the queue with ‘Apologies’ and ‘Forgive me, love’ and smiles to get a credit from the bank and raced back, barely making it.

Vincent was unimpressed but a deal was a deal and so money and commodity exchanged hands and the witcher, naked, hands and feet tightly bound, completing the whole ensemble with a collar and a leash, was led to his carriage where Anselm waited.

‘Do old eyes deceive me? Only one?’ Anselm (one of his oldest employees, who had seen him growing up, leaving and returning, grey haired and slightly stocky, kind brown eyes) asked, giving the horse, whose mane he currently stroked, one last pat and took his seat on the driver’s seat.

‘They do not. Only one. He’s a witcher,’ he paused at the way Anselm’s eyes grew bigger, ‘I had to,’ he defended himself and chanced a look at the person in question. The witcher didn’t understand a word that was being said but even if, he was sure that nothing would’ve reached these ears. The man was drawn into himself, far away from whatever was happening to him. Or at least pretending to. He opened the door, indicating for the witcher to enter and watched him do so with a deep sigh. Inside he drew the curtains, to stave off curious eyes, and knocked on the wall behind him, indicating for Anselm that it was time to go. He heard him click his tongue, talking to the horses and the carriage started to roll. The sooner they left Baccalà, the faster he could relax from the usual strain of such a day. He wished he had his lute with him to occupy his hands.

When they finally left the sounds of the city far behind, he pushed the curtains aside. It took him a moment to spot the landmarks he used as a marker for their journey’s progression – that field of orange trees, this allée of cypresses – especially since night was fast approaching now. _Not much longer_ , he thought, and glanced at the witcher opposite from him. His chest was slowly rising and falling and when their eyes met, his jumped away to hide their peculiar shine. Very well.

He, too, rolled his eyes away, to watch the world passing by, reciting poetry in his head to pass the time and lift his own mood, humming softly under his breath. If the witcher minded, he didn’t voice it. After a while, he could see that they neared _the_ crossroad and sure enough, Anselm stopped the carriage right in the middle of it, making himself comfortable and producing pipe and tobacco from his pocket.

Finally, the witcher’s eyes settled on him, drawn to slits, trying to understand the situation.

‘Your name is Geralt of Rivia, am I right?’ he asked in the common tongue of the North. No reaction. His Northern tongue wasn’t so bad was it? ‘You are a Nordling, yes?’ No reaction. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying? A simple nod or shake of your head will suffice.’ A nod. ‘Good. Best get on with it then. May I?’ he asked, indicating to his own collarless neck. For long minutes the witcher didn’t answer, then nodded. Carefully he leaned forward, motioning for the witcher to do the same. When they met in the middle, heads very close, noses nearly touching, he made sure to establish and keep eye contact as his hands disappeared behind the witcher’s head to unlock the collar. Click. The metal, heavy and horrible, was in his hands. ‘Your hands and feet next.’ He never broke eye contact as he loosened these chains, too, until the witcher was free of his bindings. Finished, he leaned back in his seat, giving himself and the witcher some space. The witcher rubbed at his abused wrists, contemplating something. 

He beat him to it. ‘The moment I paid for you, was the moment you became a free man, witcher. I’m not,’ he stopped, searching for words, ‘Not in the habit of keeping slaves. I do, however, offer a roof over your head and coin in exchange for honest work. If that does not appeal to you, you’re free to go. Now. With a horse free of charge.’ He waited a second to let the words sink in. ‘Do you understand?’ A nod. Another long moment. ‘I usually don’t do this, but would you allow me some piece of advice?’ A nod. ‘You’re in Lower Alba, the very centre of Nilfgaard. They caught you once and they probably will catch you again the way you are. I cannot give you any manpower or I would. I suggest you stay at my, uhh, estate, that’s the word, estate for a while. Recover your strength, let, um, the dust settle.’ The witcher stared. And stared. And nodded. And talked, just one word, raspy, ‘Name?’ ‘Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove.’ The look on the witcher’s face told him that he probably didn’t understand the proper pronunciation. Smiling, Julian took the bag next to him and opened it to reveal some simple clothes.

‘They should fit,’ he said while giving them to the witcher, who took them with another nod and put them on. Silence descended between them. With another strained smile, Julian knocked against the wall behind him and the carriage moved again. He sighed and closed his eyes. Homeward, at last.

*

Julian didn’t know what Geralt thought about the estate upon first seeing it. At some point he’d fallen asleep and was therefore unable to see his face as they arrived. He did get woken by him, though. A gentle but firm touch to his knee had him twitching and opening his eyes. The carriage had stopped and Anselm opened the door.

‘Have you fallen asleep again, Master Julian?’

‘Merely resting tired eyes.’

‘One of these days a knife will find its way between trusting ribs.’

Julian declined to answer, getting up instead to exit the carriage. Turning around he said, ‘You can come.’ It wasn’t elegant or eloquent but he was truly tired, Geralt would understand. And he did, although he stared at the offered hand in resentment and walked down the stairs of the carriage himself, stumbling, barely catching himself at the frame. Julian flinched but didn’t move to grant him some kind of dignity. 

Anselm took care of the horses swiftly, and as they all walked from the stables to the villa, yawned and parted ways with one final goodbye to the two of them, turning towards the large annex, where his wife, Laureen, was already waiting for him. Julian waved at her and led Geralt into the villa itself. He always did with the newcomers, knowing about the need for quiet, and time to come to their senses. Which was impossible in a house full of strangers.

It was the middle of the night and the wood in the fireplace had slowly burned down to red glowing embers. As a substitute a few candles burned, brightening the great hall with its long empty table and chairs. The house smelled pleasantly of dinner and the two doors to the patio, left and right of the hearth, were opened to air the main room of the day’s heat. Outside, the torches were lit and someone was lying on the chaise lounge, reading. Julian knew who it was without straining his eyes to see.

‘Follow me,’ he instructed and led the witcher through the room and up the stairs, located on the left, to the second floor with its partial balcony stretching around the middle of the floor, from which one could have a look at the main room downstairs as no wood separated the floors except for the beams that held the house together. There was no third floor. Only the roof. On the second floor, he further led the witcher to the western room – adjacent to his own southern one. Between that and the northern one, it was the prettier one. There wasn’t much in it: a bed, a chest, a chest of drawers and a shelf but the view from the window was lovelier than the northern room. From here one could see the distillery, the wine press house, the herb garden and beyond that the fields. 

One last time before leaving, he racked his brain for the right words, ‘This is yours for the moment. Ring the bell if you need anything. Privy is outside,’ he stopped, looking at the witcher’s tired and haggard face. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll show you around.’ He left the man alone and turned to join Saskia outside. As he descended the stairs, he could hear the door softly closing behind him.

The evening’s breeze was a needed balm as he walked outside. And so was the food Saskia offered him. ‘Gratitude.’ He sat on the bench opposite from her, leaning his back against the round table.

‘Meagre harvest,’ she opened the conversation with one raised eyebrow and closed her book. Julian washed down the food with red wine.

‘A big haul nonetheless. A witcher.’

The second eyebrow joined its sibling.

‘A witcher? Caught alive and chained? Impressive. Will he stay?’ Julian shrugged, shovelling the last of his dinner into an empty stomach. Suddenly Saskia’s demeanour changed, her eyes scrutinising him. Glowering even.

‘He stays, he works.’

‘Calm heated temper. Let the man rest.’

‘I am only salvaging damage already done. He stays, he works. To reap profits we lost because of him.’

This time, Julian glowered back.

‘And how would you know the man’s worth?’

‘Not his worth, _Master Julian_. His cost. Let clever tongue speak and be astounded by accurate prediction.’

Saskia was, uncannily and surprisingly, close to the real sum. Sighing and opening the top buttons of his doublet, Julian put his forearms on the table, leaned his weight on them and turned his head to the stars twinkling in the night sky, hoping for divine intervention, for answers. Somewhere in the bushes surrounding the patio and its adjoining garden, the cicadas were singing. Julian turned his head from the sky to the land beyond the garden – the vineyards, the cultivated fields, grazing cattle – washed in darkness. He never asked for this, never wanted it. Yet here he was. His family’s legacy the only thing he’d been allowed to keep after the war. Without it, he probably would’ve ended up being executed. 

‘He resembled more corpse than man. As if he was still at war,’ Julian whispered to the darkness.

It was Saskia who answered. ‘He was and he will be if he leaves. Because the world has changed. You know as well as I do that there is no more raison d’être for witchers and witches and non-humans. The age of men has begun. He’d be wise to stay.’ 

Julian touched his goblet to Saskia’s and drowned the rest of the wine, savouring the rich taste of berries and the hint of citrus on his tongue. It was good wine. If they were lucky, they’d be able to demand hefty prices for the bottles and if all else failed, he still had some silverware, gold rings and heirlooms and other riches he could sell in a pinch. As he wished his most trusted confidant, his Majordormus, a good night’s sleep, he promised himself that he would do everything in his power to protect the people living and working with him from the downfall of his rash decision. Including the witcher if he decided to stay. 

*

The witcher didn’t leave his room the next day. Or the next. In the mornings, after breakfast and before the day’s work began, Julian left food in front of the closed door. He did the same after lunch, taking the empty plate and giving it to Andreanna and once again before he joined the rest for dinner. Three times a day, never knocking, never disturbing, happy enough that the witcher ate. If he only left his room during the night, when everyone was fast asleep, to empty his chamber pot and perhaps explore the estate, so be it. Julian didn’t mind. If he did none of these things, then that was also fine with him.

Sometime towards the end of the second week, while everyone was having breakfast in the main hall of the villa, the witcher came shuffling out of his room, down the stairs. Laughter and conversation broke off to watch as he stood at the foot of the stairs, looking lost and a bit panicked and like a man who hadn’t washed in months.

Julian stood, addressing Andreanna, his housekeeper, in Nilfgaardian to draw a bath then turned to the witcher, offering him a seat, some food and the bath, in that order, in the common speech of the North. Hesitantly the witcher walked towards the table and despite his sorry state, Julian hooked his arm around his shoulders, introducing him to the people, currently eating their breakfast, with flourish. Some of them saluted, some waved, some said their greetings, but all of them welcomed the witcher and went back to eating or if finished started the day’s work. All names said, Julian turned to the witcher. The smile he’d carried just a second ago dimmed a little at the overwhelmed and dubious look on the pale face. 

‘Geralt, right?’ he asked. Geralt nodded. ‘You’ll be fine.’

The witcher said nothing. 

*

After Geralt’s breakfast, when everyone except Julian had already left, he led the witcher outside to the patio, around the house and into the bathhouse, with the adjoined privy, which stood between annex and villa, talking all the while about the estate and the daily routines. He could see that Geralt tried to keep up with the flood of information and Julian in turn tried to speak as slow and clear as possible. His accent had become a bit thick in the years after the war. Since it had stopped being of use to him.

This time of the day, the bathhouse was empty. As requested, Andreanna had filled one of the tubs with hot water; its steam rising and smelling pleasantly of chamomile and lemon. Blessed be that woman.

‘Towels are on that shelf over here. New clothes here. Soap, sponges,’ Julian said while pointing to the different shelves. ‘Everyone keeps their used - hm - things, to avoid disease. Wet towels are put on the rack outside. Any questions?’ Geralt shook his head.

‘Perfect. Take your time, I’ll be in the garden.’ He turned towards the exit, his back already to Geralt, when the witcher caught his hand. Startled, he looked down at the calloused hand wrapped around his wrist and then at the witcher, whose eyes shone strangely in the semi-darkness of the room.

He rasped, ‘Thank you…Jaskier.’

That wasn’t his name, but whatever. He could live with it as long as Geralt kept talking.

‘You’re most welcome, my friend,’ Julian answered, squeezed Geralt’s hand and left the building, whistling a merry tune.

He hated agriculture but he loved tending to the garden. Perhaps it had something to do with his advanced age, he wasn’t in his twenties anymore after all, or perhaps it was the tranquillity it offered after years of bloodshed and horror. Seeing life bloom instead of being snuffed out. He hadn’t been a soldier, hadn’t been at the front. But as a spy and chronicler he’d seen and heard enough. Soft footsteps alerted him to another presence and as he turned his head from his task of pruning the olive tree, he saw Geralt, all prim and proper. The man was still too thin but that would hopefully change soon. Wherever his path would lead him. 

‘Have a look at that. Now I know why they call you the White Wolf.’ Julian squinted his eyes at the sun reflected by the wet white shining hair. ‘Shall we?’ he asked, walking towards Geralt, towards the direction he came from.

‘Would you prefer verse or prose? This way.’

Geralt groaned, ‘Spare me. Please.’

Julian said, clutching his hand to his chest dramatically, ‘ _What_? But where’s the fun in that? It _is_ my accent isn’t it? I admit my Northern is a bit rusty but –‘

‘Your Common is fine,’ Geralt said through gritted teeth, rolling his eyes at the way Julian’s chest swelled with the compliment, ‘No poetics, please.’

Julian huffed but complied, beginning the tour. ‘Very well, my crude friend, your loss. Let your gaze wander to the left and you’ll see the bathhouse you’re already acquaintance with.’

It took the whole midmorning to show Geralt the different buildings: from the stillroom (which was also used for the production of soap), wine press and its cellars in the west to the stables for the horses and the cattle and goats in the east and of course the villa with its annex for staff members right in the middle. Everyone greeted the witcher with friendly gestures and smiles and in Nilfgaardian. Although some were former citizens of the North and could therefore speak the common speech of the continent, they decided against using it. He could only guess the reason. Geralt, initially deadly silent, soon responded to the greetings with his own heavy accent and admitted that the only other language he could speak was Elder. Julian waved his embarrassment away.

‘Anyone willing to learn a new language deserves praise. No one is born a master.’ 

Shortly before lunch was served, Julian stirred the witcher back to the villa where a bunch of people had begun setting the long table in the middle of the room already. Without hesitation, Julian joined to help, asking Geralt to do the same while Saskia and Marlon finished cooking. It smelled amazing, like vegetable soup and fresh bread. Julian told them so, his eyes always glued to Geralt, smiling at the small, confused crease in his forehead. Lunch _was_ delicious – not only the soup and bread, but also the pickled olives and the dip made out of tomatoes and fresh cheese – and loud. Not because the parents couldn’t keep their children in check, the five rascals behaved perfectly. But because twenty-five people talking and laughing was bound to create a ruckus. Saskia sat opposite from him, inquiring after news from the city, eyeing Geralt now and then. It must have been overwhelming for the witcher with his heightened senses. That coupled with the fact that he didn’t speak the language or knew a single soul. Julian was quite impressed to see the man relax and enjoy his lunch nonetheless, observing the people at the table, content to listen.

Like a well-oiled machine everyone gathered their things after lunch, leaving the table to be cleaned by the housekeeper and two helpers, and went back to work. Julian, meanwhile, led Geralt back to the stables.

‘I saw a couple of dwarves _and_ elves at the table. Even an Ofirian woman,’ Geralt said, almost nonchalant, which to Julian, used to political intrigues and hidden words, wasn’t very subtle.

‘Most of the freed want to return to their home. But for some there’s no home to return to,’ he explained as they entered the stable. ‘Pick one, they’re all trained.’ He watched as Geralt walked towards a chestnut coloured mare immediately, offering the back of his hand to be smelled at. Getting permission, a lick of his hand, he walked closer and stroked her nose, talking to her quietly. Julian was impressed but unsurprised. Of course a witcher would know how to handle horses.

Saddled up, Julian rode them away from the cluster of houses. 

‘I’ll show you the vineyards and fields next. Not all of them are cultivated but this way you will get a picture of the land.’

Geralt clearly enjoyed the fresh air and calm of the ride after the crescendo of lunch, even with Julian chatting away, explaining everything. There was even something wistful on his face as they rode along the vast terrain. They came back before dinner was about to be served and gave the horses to Anselm, who was taking care of the other three currently residing in their boxes. Julian shortly talked to the old man, Geralt next to him, highly focused on understanding them while petting the mare which had carried him all afternoon. It was charming, in a way, Julian thought, and made the witcher - softer.

Dinner was more subdued than lunch, in terms of food – the rest of lunch and some cheeses – and volume. Everyone was tired after a long day working. It was Seherim’s and Moril’s turn to clean the table and wash the plates and as Julian watched them walking onto the veranda to do so, he smiled. The two elves deserved to be happy.

When the children were eventually tucked into bed and the adults slowly grew tired of playing dice or cards or drinking, Julian got his lute from upstairs. He felt like this night was a night for song, something slow mayhap. Geralt kept mostly to himself, nursing a bottle of wine throughout the evening. Kept to himself not because the others feared him but rather because they waited, respected his wish for privacy.

As Julian settled himself atop one end of the table and experimentally strummed his lute, conversation ebbed to listen to the former poet and bard. He couldn’t claim the title of the latter anymore, but his staff was grateful even so, enjoying themselves, humming, joining in the chorus and clapping afterwards. What else could he do but bow low after his performance and thank them from the bottom of his heart. He caught Geralt’s eyes, wondering what the witcher thought as the only one who hadn’t understood the words of the ballad, a song honouring those that had fallen in the war. Geralt nodded, almost approvingly and left the main hall, sadness following his steps. Julian pondered why but came to the conclusion that Geralt would leave them. It tugged at his heartstrings a fair bit. Shame. He liked the witcher.

*

And then –

In the morning,

‘Jaskier? I’d like to stay.’

Julian, now Jaskier apparently, smiled. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the kudos & once again to the comments! :)

**Chapter 2**

During his first conscious week with them, he sent Geralt with someone different each day to get familiar with the different processes, to get a feeling for the work and people living on the estate. Jaskier himself had to take care of the bureaucratic side of things after all and was, unfortunately, unable to show Geralt the ropes. The monthly payment was coming up. 

Saskia and himself were sitting on the patio with cool water from the well, the sun sizzling their skin, calculating. Well. Saskia was calculating. Jaskier was daydreaming about the witcher, quill tapping against paper which ought to be used for writing down numbers, head supported by his hand, composing a sonnet _Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate –_

‘Stop that. Catch wandering thoughts.’

Groaning, Jaskier stretched his arms across the table, earning himself an angry look from Saskia as he rested his body across the wood and papers like a dead fish.

‘I was not created to manage a business. Much less to be a farmer. In my soul resides a poet, Saskia! A poet!’

Saskia took a deep breath, concentrating on the numbers. She knew better than to humour those moods. But it was for naught.

‘Do not force be to be something I am not, O evil heartless serpent!’

Enough was enough. Saskia’s fist connected with the table, catching the pouting poet’s attention.

‘ _I_ O poet, did not force you to free the witcher and _I_ did not force you to live as an outcast. Frankly, it is a miracle blood still pumps through your veins, giving life to short-sighted head. Now turn eyes to the problem at hand. No matter how you look at it, it will not be enough.’

Jaskier sighed, snatching the papers, and read them while Saskia leaned back and closed her eyes to enjoy the heat, taking a deep breath. The birds in the trees sang happily. She opened her eyes as the man opposite from her started talking, ‘I will put off repayment to the bank for another month, demand more for wine and sell that old painting of the Emperor in his youth. Some nitwit will certainly buy it.’

‘And what about next month?’

Jaskier sighed again.

‘I’ll have words with Laureen and Niamh. Perhaps we can breed some more cattle and chickens to sell them at market.’

Thinking about it, Saskia fiddled with her cup, saying, ‘We were doing well, Julian. Not to mention the enemies you will have made with this move.’

He understood her frustration and yet a fierce protectiveness overcame him, had him sitting up for his next words, ‘I feel no regret and would do it again in a heartbeat would opportunity present itself. I did not have to be a mage to predict his imminent fate at the hands of Valdo _fucking_ Marx.’

Saskia didn’t reply, an indescribable expression on her face.

Suddenly she changed the topic, a fact which Jaskier admired about her, the ability to follow three strings of thoughts at the same time, ‘What about the language barrier?’

‘He must conquer it like every Nordling who has decided to stay. By the grace of listening and being taught.’

‘Am I right in assuming that you will teach him? Selflessly, of course, not at all to enjoy fine company.’

Were Jaskier anyone else, a blush would have appeared on his face. As it was, he was rather shameless when it came to the matters of love and lust.

‘Of course, dearest Saskia.’

The Majordomo shook her head, gathering the papers. ‘If you allow me some words of advice, be careful. Rumours are most often mere rumours and the truth of his past and essence still shrouded in mystery.’ For now, this was the last she would say on the topic of the witcher. Knowing her, though, it wouldn’t be the last time she brought it up.

Before Jaskier could answer, Laureen walked into the garden, wiping her hands on an old rag which was bound around her wide hips, asking if Saskia was ready to examine the damage of the walls in the cowshed and the wine cellar. Saskia agreed, sharing a conspiring look with Jaskier. They had agreed to keep quiet regarding the estate’s financial straits and would continue to do so. No reason to upset the apple cart. But appearance had to be maintained and so Saskia left, already focused on the next task.

Jaskier sighed and decided to scribble his new composition down and struck by inspiration added a few lines, _Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date_. 

*

The teacher in him patted himself on the back whenever he sat down to have his triweekly language lesson with Geralt. Clearly the man had a knack for languages: understood grammar fast and learned new words at top speed, but Jaskier was convinced that three-quarters of Geralt’s skill came from his brilliant teaching. The poet in him only hoped that Geralt would one day be able to get a grasp of the right intonation, cadence, pronunciation and, to be honest, pomposity of Nilfgaardian.

It was truly stunning nonetheless to see him making an effort after he came back from a hard day’s work, always bathed. Rumours and prejudices towards the Nordlings and especially witchers were truly unfounded in that regard. The long hair was a strange sight, but it suited him. Usually it was still wet when he arrived, dripping scented water into his collar which was teasingly exposed by a loose shirt as well as his collarbones and parts of his scarred chest.

During one of these lessons, sitting outside on the patio for some peace, while dinner was prepared inside the villa, his thoughts drifted while he supported his head by his hand. And he really couldn’t be blamed when he was sitting so close to Geralt, their feet brushing now and then, whenever Jaskier circled them to get blood flowing, underneath the table. Geralt was focused on the paper in front of him, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, fingers tapping out a rhythm.

He couldn’t stop his eyes from roaming over Geralt’s body.

My heart swells at the knowledge of you staying and thriving. I would have been inconsolable if someone else’s hands would’ve snatched you away before my eyes. You are _truly_ sublime. Inspiring. Hm, _But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st._

‘What?’

Geralt’s sharp words made Jaskier jump, his eyes going wide in shock and embarrassment. He hadn’t been aware of speaking. The other man looked at him with confusion, eyebrows raised and blinking owlishly.

‘Ah, forgive me, my friend. I’m afraid I was thinking aloud. It’s of no import. Show me your solutions.’ 

He took Geralt’s paper, scanning his sentences, shifting his thoughts back to the task at hand, ‘If you look at the conjugation of the verb here…’

He looked up again and stared right into Geralt’s face as his head was bent over the exercises, too, his cat-eyes jumping between the errors Jaskier pointed out and Jaskier’s face. Gods above if this went on, he would soon die of a heartattack. Which would be embarrassing. He wasn’t an inexperienced young man anymore; his heart shouldn’t race like that nor should his stomach end in knots every time Geralt so much as looked or spoke to him.

‘Yes, Jaskier? What about the verbs?’

Did he imagine that or was Geralt’s voice darker than usual? He shook himself out of it, angry at himself and went on explaining; he had to stop this. For his own sanity. Not long after he was saved by Andreanna, who stepped out on the patio and told them that dinner was ready.

*

All too soon the day of the monthly market was coming up and with it the day of payment. As always, the night before the actual event, Saskia and Jaskier asked, during dinner, who would want to join and who’d need something from the city. Pieces of paper were passed around and everyone who was literate, which became more and more people due to the master of the house being very keen about his staff’s education, wrote what they wanted down. Still learning the language and the dynamics of the community, Geralt watched the whole procedure all the while munching the fish he and Curt had caught in the river, half an hour ride away from the house, that morning. Seeing his curiosity, Jaskier emptied his cup and turned to the witcher.

‘We’re leaving for the market tomorrow to sell our produce, so we’re asking who wants to join us and what is needed.’

‘Ah. I wondered about that,’ Geralt answered.

‘ _Do you_ need anything? Or want anything?’ Jaskier said, then grimaced, ‘I’d rather not take you so shortly after – you understand, right?’

Geralt nodded, no trace of insult on his features, quite the contrary. He seemed to contemplate the idea. 

‘Actually,’ he faltered for a second, ‘I know you have no need for a witcher here. But I’d like to keep training in some capacity. If you could purchase a sword for me, I’d be grateful.’

Jaskier could read between the lines and couldn’t stop the small smile from forming on his face. For the witcher to ask such a thing, it meant that he wanted to keep his reflexes sharp in case someone were to attack, which also meant he felt a certain kinship already, for him to desire to protect this house.

‘Of course. You earned it with hard work. I’ll make sure not to buy the most expensive one. Just so you’ll still have some coin to spare. But, Geralt, I noticed that you favour your right leg and that your hand is not as agile as it should be. Are you certain you’ll be able to train?’

Geralt looked taken aback but caught himself quickly.

‘You have a keen eye, Jaskier. Yes, I’ll be fine. If you excuse me.’ Without looking at Jaskier again, Geralt rose from his chair and went upstairs to his room.

_Oh._

Jaskier blinked at the space Geralt had left. He hadn’t meant to insult the witcher. Then another thought crossed his mind. _His room_. Jaskier hadn’t noticed when he started to refer to it as Geralt’s room, but it seemed fitting. He couldn’t imagine the lonesome, imposing figure of the witcher sleeping with the rest of the staff. Also, there was something calming about knowing that Geralt slept in the room next door. Humming, Jaskier turned his head to the balcony upstairs to watch the other man walk along the corridor, as if he belonged to the shadows, before he disappeared into his room.

Early in the morning the goods were loaded onto the wagon – wine, liquor, fruit, soap, preserve and that awful painting – by a sleepy Jaskier and a more alert Anselm and Mantas. Laureen followed, carrying a basket of food with breakfast and lunch for the company of people leaving for the city, Moril and Beatrix next to her; the only two interested in going shopping. She pushed the basket into Jaskier’s hands and settled on the driver’s seat next to her husband, while Jaskier, Mantis, Moril and Beatrix took a seat on the cart, between the wares, and got comfortable.

‘Wake me when city walls appear on the horizon, Mantis,’ Jaskier said to the dwarf, getting comfortable on his back, hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

‘Yer a lazy fuck, Master Julian.’

‘Hmm. Haven’t had a good fuck in a while.’

With a determined, ‘Hiya’ from Anselm the cart rattled into motion, away from the villa. But Jaskier’s thoughts stayed and moved into a very different direction. Unbidden and uninvited but Jaskier let them, imagined golden eyes settling on his, hungry and ready to devour. Hmm, indeed. He wondered what Geralt would like. He’d seen the way the witcher talked to the other’s, how he tried to make himself less towering, less threatening. Would he take charge once all inhibitions fell from him? Or would he let his lover do as they pleased? Let them undress him in the flickering light of a dozen candles, let hands wander along muscles that were beginning to take shape again with the help of constant meals, let himself be manoeuvred onto the bed, to be kissed and cherished, to let his prick be –

‘ _Master Julian,_ I speak with all due respect: _stop_. Whatever your thoughts, halt them.’

He opened one blue eye to see Moril’s indignant face and closed it again, rearranging the contents of his breeches as he settled back with a pout. _Women_ , he thought.

‘Is he thinking about sex again?’ Laureen asked from the front, turning around to speak to Moril.

‘Clearly.’

‘Count yourself lucky to not have been witness to his youthful exploits. He has become more settled in his old age.’

Jaskier twitched _. Old age_! Now that was a step too far!

‘How amusing that you, in your infinite wisdom, talk about old age. Alas, the more I think about it the clearer it becomes. Yes, yes, you truly must be an expert in such matters. After all, you are comparable to the ripeness and youth of an eighteen-year-old peach.’

Mantis snorted. How nice! At least who appreciated his wit, someone who was on his side. Too bad Jaskier’s eyes were closed or else he would have seen the shared amusement between the others.

‘Did sharp elven ears hear that, Moril?’ Laureen asked, humour in her voice, ‘Do you think me such a peach?’

‘Not at all, love. I would say not a week older than when picked.’ The two women laughed. ‘But speak honest words, Laureen. You’re human. How do accomplish to appear so young?’

And so, the conversation drifted towards the subject of cremes and salves and other womanly concerns. Finally, he could give himself to slumber, murmuring about missing respect under his breath. 

The news about the witcher’s purchase was on everyone’s lips. A blessing and a curse all at one. People flocked to their corner of the market, inquiring about the truth of the rumour, asking of the witcher’s whereabouts, what position he held and how hard it was to tame such an animal. Jaskier used the curiosity to wheedle more coin out of the buyers, charming them with half-truths and compliments. If he had to suppress his desperate wish to tell them to fuck off, well, they were none the wiser. He was lucky enough that the other noble fuckers, those that truly kept slaves and fighters, were the only ones that knew about his, to their eyes, disgraceful habits.

On his way to the antiquity merchant, after the uncomfortable trip to the tax collector and bank, he made sure to give the arena a wide berth. He could do without the pictures it brought to mind. The ones from his childhood, burned into his mind, when his father insisted on taking him to the games. Entertainment as they called it. Human beings tearing each other apart, while hundreds yelled as if intoxicated. Vividly he remembered complaining to his mother about the nightmares and the smell of blood even hours after leaving the arena and the fury on his father’s face when she betrayed her child’s trust and told her husband. The disappointment on their face – their own son, feeling sick instead of captivated; feeling sorry for the beasts instead of sheering for the winner. He had kept his mouth shut after that particular beating; his eyes closed for every visit to the arena thereafter.

How lucky he’d been to have Laureen and Anselm, who were more mother and father to him than his own blood.

How naïve he’d been as a young man, to think he could make a change…

But it was in the past.

In the present he sold the painting, getting less coin than he’d hoped, and had to take an extra trip to the jewellery to sell a gold ring he’d once been gifted by, he thought about the name for a moment, but couldn’t remember. Done with his own errands, he met with Moril and Beatrix and together the three of them made sure to get the wished items on the lists before returning to the stall that was in the middle of being taken down by the rest of their company.

‘How did you fare?’ Jaskier inquired as he unloaded everything onto the cart, being careful with the sword, on which someone had already loaded sacks of wheat.

‘Sold everything, Master Julian. Gratitude to the witcher. People came to get news of him and left with lighter purse. I suggest bringing him with us next time.’

‘I suggest,’ Jaskier said, falsely cheerful, ‘You strike that notion from mind.’

Everyone except Anselm and Laureen stopped with their work, astounded by his harsh tone, to muster him. Jaskier only grinned until they went back to packing up, giving each other meaningful yet secret glances. The subject was not broached again on the way back home. Nor during dinner as everyone gathered to receive the wished for purchases and the month’s salary.

After dinner, Geralt sat cross-legged in front of the fire, despite the remaining sweltering heat from the day and the cooking, sword and coin purse in front of him with a funny expression on his face. Filling two wine goblets, Jaskier approached him.

‘A Floren for your thoughts?’ he smiled, sitting down on one the cushions he’d produced from the pantry slash storage room next to the main hall, without being offered the seat next to the witcher. Geralt turned his gaze to him and once again Jaskier noticed how truly magnificent his eyes were. He’d have to ask the witcher about them some day. He noticed that Geralt didn’t turn away, didn’t miss the way both of them let their eyes linger on the other’s face. Another kind of heat shot through his body altogether; and was his skin tingling from the magical gaze of a witcher alone? Geralt cleared his throat and broke the tension. 

‘I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ he disclosed but went on, ‘This. All of it it’s –‘

Jaskier held the goblet out to him, which he took with a thanks and downing, quite impressively, half the content. A moment later he burped, going back to watching the flames. 

‘My own people turned against me and you – for decades I took care of their _problems_ , was dragged into – and then when I finally thought _it’s over_ , _I’m done_ , they almost lynch me and m–,’ he stopped, ‘Don’t know why they didn’t. What made them change their mind. To knock me out and sell me to Nilfgaard to be -,’ this time he paused for a longer moment, his fists clenching. Eventually he turned back, catching Jaskier’s eyes. ‘You, a Nilfgaardian, who was supposed to own me like a dog, treat me with more respect than I’ve received in the last years from my own people.’

‘Well, not all of us are bastards.’

A shadow settled over those golden eyes, ‘I know. I once travelled with a Nilfgaardian. Always said he wasn’t one.’

‘Oh?’

‘Hm.’

Geralt could see the flame of curiosity flickering in Jaskier’s eyes and immediately went to quell it, ‘A story for another time.’

Carefully he traced his thumb along the edge of the sword in his lap. Switching to Nilfgaardian he said, rough and unfamiliar with the right pronunciation, ‘Gratitude, Jaskier. For sword.’

Proud at Geralt’s progress and at the fact that he was the one who’d made it possible, Jaskier beamed, only to pout as Geralt switched back and continued, ‘Although it’s shit.’

‘Hey, see me take a shit in your room, that’ll give you something real to complain about. Besides not like you’ll need it.’

‘You never know. Could be useful for shovelling,’ Geralt said, eyes twinkling in the fire light, lips stretched across his face in a smile. Jaskier burst out laughing, one hand on Geralt’s shoulder for support, the other holding his goblet tight.

‘Sit tight, dear, I’ll get some more wine.’

He came back with another bottle, already feeling the effects of the alcohol – his ears heating up, vision skewed, the world a bit softer around the edges – and a chair. Huffing he sat back down on the ground, leaning back against the legs of the chair, and picked up their earlier conversation.

‘I’m afraid the only kind of monster left in Nilfgaard is of the human kind. But not here. Never here. Refill?’

Geralt smiled – still a bit too tight lipped, but he had a nice smile regardless, suited him exceptionally well (and too tipsy Jaskier didn’t realise that he’d said it aloud) – and offered his cup to be filled. And stayed. Geralt did not flee up to his room. He stayed.

‘No music tonight?’

Jaskier let his eyes roam across the room: he saw Moril and Sarahim leaving while giving each other heated looks; saw Anselm and Mantis playing their fifth round of cards, Sheldon drinking next to them; Saskia, Laureen and Andreanna sitting in a corner talking and laughing, while Beatrix and Hanna, the two young sisters, braided each other’s hair; Niamh outside reading her new book; the trio of friends – Sasha, Curt and Tarvon – leaving for the bathhouse and finally to Geralt sitting next to him, smiling in that particular way so Geralt-ish, comfortable for the first time. Outside the cicadas were singing their song and the glow of candles and torches gave light to the barely furnished room, wrapping the residents in a blanket of oranges and yellows and laughter. Everything was dipped in a too dreamy atmosphere to disturb it.

‘No, tonight is no night for music.’

‘No?’ Geralt said, his eyebrows raised, mouth still stretched in a small smile.

‘Do you miss it already? I could provide a private concert if your heart desires such a thing.ʼ

For a second the smile vanished, a stunned expression entering Geralt’s face before a faint, very faint, red filled his cheeks and he chuckled.

‘Another time perhaps. I’ve seen the look on your face when you play. I reckon you enjoy it a great deal so why not make it your profession? I don’t mean to offend but you don’t strike me as the kind of person who enjoys farm work. Or any hard work.’

‘The rumours certainly do not do you any justice. Tell me: Can these eyes of yours lay someone’s soul bare for you to inspect like an inspect underneath a magnifying glass? ʼ

A quiet rumbling laugh left Geralt’s throat, followed by a negation.

‘You are of course completely right. I do enjoy it a great deal and for a long time it was my profession. I was a troubadour. Travelled the whole continent and enjoyed all it had to offer. Until our Emperor started the War against the North,’ Jaskier stopped, licking his lips, deciding how much he could disclose, ‘I got drafted, unlucky me.’

‘You were a soldier?’

‘Hah! Gods, no. I wouldn’t have survived a day. Can you imagine? No, I used my powers of persuasion and became an agent for the Empire.’

Geralt’s eyebrows knitted together, ‘An agent?’

‘A spy. Albeit not a very successful one. I spent the majority of the war performing in courts or the beds of Northern nobles. On one or two memorable occasions even some backwater village. I was never _deeply_ interested in the petty quarrels of men in power, much less the wars. Just enough that I may navigate my way over treacherous political grounds.’

‘You really don’t know then – ‘ Geralt said, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline.

‘What? What should I know?’

‘Nothing. Another time. How did you end up here?’ 

Jaskier emptied the bottle into their cups. There were a lot of ‘another times’ coming from Geralt. He was looking forward to them. 

‘I was exposed and had to flee the North. The fact that I had never conveyed any relevant information didn’t interest them. And when I came back, Nilfgaard declared me a deserter. I thought I was done for but before I could be executed the peace treaty was signed. I used it to convince them that I was more worth alive than dead.’

‘I understand.’

‘Ah, but my friend, you didn’t let me finish. I know what you think – that I lied and bought this villa to complete the ruse. In truth this is my family’s estate, my birth right, which I abandoned. Anselm and Laureen took care of it in my absence. Bless them. Kind souls that had never known anything else. And upon my return we breathed life into those old bones. The rest of the story is rather boring. And not mine to tell.’

Jaskier didn’t go into detail about the ultimatum he was forced to adhere to, nor the matter of his unseemly attempt at managing the farm on his own. Geralt didn’t say anything, and the natural comfortable silence between them stretched on like yarn that was being unravelled.

‘When did you decide to rescue slaves?’

‘The first time we went to the market and I was witness to the auction. I knew about them of course. But the problem was that I couldn’t change my people’s ways with song alone.’ Jaskier sighed. ‘Saskia was the first one.’

‘Why did she stay?’

‘You better ask her that yourself.’

‘You know what? I will. For now, I think it’s time to sleep.’

On cue, Jaskier yawned. The fire had burned down to a smouldering heap and now that he took stock of his surroundings, he realised that everyone else had gone to bed, too. Suddenly feeling very tired, he mumbled, ‘I think your quite right, Geralt. Your quite right.’

The witcher was the first to stand but waited until Jaskier lifted himself, cursing his creaking bones under his breath - not the alcohol, he didn’t deserve that and wasn’t at fault although he remembered having a higher tolerance for it in his youth - and together they walked to the second floor, extinguishing the candles and saying their ‘good nights’ in hushed tones, Jaskier feeling Geralt’s proximity like a blanket draped over your shoulders during cold winter nights. 

*

Some invisible barrier Geralt had had put up, had come crumbling down that evening. There was a lightness to his interactions with the rest of the residents that hadn’t been there before. A few days later as he was training in the garden just before dinner, the last rays of sun hitting his bare chest, some of the children came rushing out, watching him with big eyes and open mouths. How Jaskier knew this? Because when he stood to leave his room after a day of writing (working) hunched over his desk, and looked out the window per chance, he saw Geralt. Upon seeing the witcher, his feet carried him to the balcony where he leaned against the railing and watched the man going through fascinating, clearly practiced forms: he danced across the grass, fast and light-footed, combining strength and elegance. His blade reflected the sun whenever it cut through the air while his hair followed suit. He was beautiful. Breath taking. Jaskier had always been bad at denying himself the finer things in life. Licking his lips, he stayed put to watch and enjoy the show.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one. It didn’t take long for the children of the house to run to the patio in wonder and watch the witcher intrigued, wide-eyed and whispering to each other. Jaskier couldn’t help himself but smile at the crowd of little admirers. A knock at the door tore him out of his musings, but unwilling to tear his eyes away, he turned his head half-way, telling whoever it was to enter.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Saskia appearing next to him. He was not surprised. For a moment they both kept silent, watching Geralt in the garden performing exaggerated figures for his audience of children.

‘Is this your new leisure activity, _Jaskier_?’ she said, scowling yet smirking at the time, much to Jaskier’s amusement.

‘Picked up on that, have you?’ He didn’t elaborate on what she meant, the name or his budding attraction to Geralt. It was becoming a bit of a problem. On the one hand he enjoyed spending time with the witcher, alluring creature that he was, and was desperate to get to know him, to touch him in many sinful ways but, although he tried his darndest to downplay it as much as possible, was guilty of whoring around, he was to some degree the master of this house. The thought of becoming what he despised was simply to gut churning. Silent yearning it was and would be.

When Saskia did not reply for too long, he forced himself to look away and blinked at the thoughtful, empathic expression on her face. Her hand, warm, always warm, covered his on the railing.

She saved them from the awkwardness of the conversation by saying, ‘The name. The sound of it is sweet. Strangely fitting.’

‘Grat-’

‘And wonderful opportunity to mock you. I shall tell the others.’

She snatched her hand back and made to leave the room. ‘Dinner is served. Nourish body, Jaskier, not only soul.’

‘Oh, fuck you!’

He might have yelled that last one a tad too loud if the shocked expression on Geralt’s face was any indication. By the Gods who had taught the man to identify swearing words? Jaskier could feel his face heating up in embarrassment (had Geralt been aware of his presence?) and fled downstairs.

*

And so the days dragged on, the months passed and summer turned to autumn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & Concrit appreciated. If you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out.
> 
> The poem Jaskier cites is of course Shakespeare's Sonnet 18.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the like 3 people reading: This story is not abandoned lol. I'm actively writing for another fandom as well, so updates might take a while. But they're coming.

Three factors made it possible to keep the wolves from their door: Saskias’s brilliant mind for numbers, his various sellable items and Geralt. Over the course of the season the man developed into a reliable worker, a man of action, who wasn’t above helping wherever help was needed.

Geralt was fine with helping Sasha catching the goats to have Niamh inspect them for any infections while running across the fields, doing stupid noises to lead them into the stable. He was fine helping Tarvon and Curt milking the cows, collecting eggs from the chickens, enjoyed his fishing trips with the latter, the two of them spending hours sitting next to each other in silence. He was fine getting dirty while helping Sheldon with repairs. He was fine cleaning the houses, washing and mending clothes with Andreanna and Laureen, listening to the women gossiping and giggling. He was fine producing soap next to Hannah and Katrina although the fragrances tickled his sensitive nose and made him sneeze the rest of the evening. He was fine distilling schnapps and other spirits made from picked fruit with Mantis and Beatrix, having a weakness for tasting the finished product one too many times. But. He was most comfortable when he could help Anselm with the horses, feeding them leftover carrots and taking them out on rides; when he helped Serehim and Cedric with the herb and vegetable garden and when he took care of the children, giving Anna some time for herself while he let them climb all over him, playing hide-and-seek or any game they felt like on a given day.

While the rest of the staff, in time, had each found their place according to their strengths and interests, Geralt drifted from one thing to another, undecided what he wanted to do. No one minded as they were happy to have an extra helping hand in exchange for some language lessons and stories. In time it became a collective effort to teach him the most difficult, most ridiculous words and dispel the heavy cloud that surrounded his being with laughter.

Come autumn the grapes were ripe to be harvested and so most of the staff was found at the vineyards, collecting the fruit into panniers while Jaskier was at the house teaching the children. Compared to the North, the weather was still warm, but the days began to grow shorter and the winds colder. It didn’t matter, though, not when everyone was sweating as they carefully and methodically picked the grapes. Once could hear the occasional chatter drift over the field.

A few weeks earlier Geralt had told him that he’d once been part of a grape festival in Toussaint. Of course, Jaskier had pestered him about all the details. But unfortunately, Geralt didn’t like talking about his past and had therefore barely expanded on his story. He did talk about the beginning of the festival however, and how the Duchess had been the centre of attention. Jaskier could promise him that their harvest wasn’t connected to so many silly traditions. And Geralt had been ignorant of Jaskier’s mischievous smile.

As the beginning of the harvest rolled around, an altered form of the tradition was practiced and caught Geralt off guard. Well, it was his own fault for letting his senses dull and be surprised that the beginning of the grape harvest was heralded by everyone carrying the big, old wooden winepresses, that were only used for this special occasion, out to the front of the house in order to pour the first harvested grapes into them and gleefully getting down to their bare feet and light robes that showed stains from the previous years. The children especially enjoyed munching through the grapes, laughing and jumping while holding each other’s hands.

At first Geralt stood on the site line, confusedly blinking at the spectacle, before a small smile graced his features and Jaskier appeared next to him. ‘Come on then,’ he said, nodding to the presses and disrobing of his doublet. Shaking his head, Geralt finally joined them, spending the afternoon stomping through red that wasn’t blood. 

*

As autumn slowly faded to winter, there came a day where Jaskier discreetly told Anselm to ready the horses for a personal trip into town. He’d been able to push the payment to the bank further and further back but Ladox was getting angrier and more impatient. A full payment wouldn’t be possible at that point, but part of it was better than nothing. Anselm didn’t inquire after the lonesome trip, sure that it was either of carnal nature or something else, something more private about which he didn’t feel the need to press for a reason. Although Laureen probed him with her own curiosity, paired with worry. Julian was like a second son to her.

They set off directly after lunch, while everyone else went back to work, hurrying along without eyes following them. Jaskier sat with him on the way to town, his lute in his lap, composing and asking now and then for the old man’s input. He wasn’t one for music, but he tried his best to give good, honest advice. He was proud to be able to comment on the underlying romantic nature of the text or the melody in which melancholy and longing hugged each other in a melodious union, a tune almost too emotionally heavy for the open dusty road ahead of them.

The trip to the city was unremarkable and while Jaskier’d told him that it wouldn’t take long, Anselm took the time off to stroll through the narrow streets and stalls lining the cobbled streets. His mouth watered as he saw Old Mira selling her famous pies and without preamble, he slandered over to her, talking to the old woman while he enjoyed one of her pork pies. As the sun slowly began to set and everyone in the city got ready to retire either to their homes or to the nearest tavern, his feet carried him back to their carriage, past the brothel, where he stopped and wondered if he should wait before he got moving again and saw another vendor in the midst of closing down, spotting balls of yarn in vibrant colours and stopped again to buy a couple for Laureen. Back at the carriage, he saw Julian already waiting for him, stroking the horses gently, humming to them.

‘You spoke honest words. I did not expect you back so early.’

As Anselm’s voice broke through his troubled thoughts, Jaskier turned around with a tired smile.

‘I am a man of my word. Come. Let’s head home.’

He patted the pale gelding one last time before he mounted the carriage, this time to go inside and catch his breath. He had, after all, only narrowly escaped Ladox and the angry goliaths he called bodyguards after only half the payment. He really had to have an earnest talk with Saskia and find a solution to this problem.

As they slowly left town, he let his thoughts drift, his temples aching with a headache he’d been silently nursing for weeks now. The dull throbbing pain in his skull made it impossible to grasp one thread of thought. Instead several fledgling threads lay in his head like dropped yarn as he was unable to grasp them, fully form them.

His brooding was interrupted by the sudden halt of the carriage. His instincts told him that there was no way they had already reached home.

There –

There were voices, muffled by the wood, and torchlight spilling through the windows. The door was wrenched open and a concealed figure lit the interior. Jaskier gulped as panic gripped his chest and dug its claws into his lungs.

‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ he squeaked, hoping against all rational thought that it wasn’t bandits.

The hooded figure didn’t answer.

‘I can assure you, we have nothing of – Argh,’ he was cut off as the figure entered and roughly dragged him out of the carriage, apathetic to his well-being as he stumbled down the steps and fell to his knees in the dirt. He caught himself with his hands and fearfully looked up at the men surrounding him, unable to get more air into his lungs. His gaze swivelled to the driver’s seat, where Anselm clutched his side and in the pale light of the fire, Jaskier could see red spots staining the fabric around his hand.

Then a sack was put over his head. Before he could protest or talk his way out of the situation, something blunt hit his head and his world turned black.

*

Laureen was wringing her hands in her lap. She didn’t try to show it but Geralt’s witcher senses picked up everything. Her heart was beating faster than usual, more sweat then usual was staining her armpits. She was distracted as she spoke to the young girls. Sighing and focussing on what he wanted to say, Geralt walked over to her and caught her eyes, sitting across from her. From up close the shadows of the candle illuminated the worried lines adorning her face.

‘What is the problem?’ Geralt spoke slowly, fitting his mouth around the strange words. She answered something which Geralt puzzled together as _they should’ve been back by now_. And he understood her concern. It was relatively late. Many had already retired to bed and the fire in the hearth was barely burning anymore. Geralt nodded. Just then as he opened his mouth again, his ears picked up the sound of hooves frantically pelting against the ground. Alarmed he looked at Laureen, told her to come and together they exited the house to see the carriage driving up the lane at an unusual speed. It only slowly came to a stop in front of Geralt and Laureen. He smelled the blood first but it was Laureen’s shocked gasp that reeled him into motion towards Anselm. The old man was breathing heavily, holding his side, eyes pinched shut in pain.

Laureen was talking to her husband, already clambering up the driver’s seat to check for injuries. Geralt didn’t understand what she was saying. Not because he was not trying but because a rushing sound like angry waves crashing against the hull of a ship was in his head as he rushed to the carriage and opened the door. He couldn’t – he couldn’t smell Jaskier as he wrenched the door nearly off his hinges and looked inside. Nothing. Only the small bag Jaskier took with him sometimes. And his lute.

The rushing sound got louder. It couldn’t be. No…

A hand clasped his shoulder. Swallowing around a dry throat he turned around, eyes like saucers. Anselm was leaning against his wife, pale as a sheet.

‘Bandits, Geralt. It was bandits. Attacked on the road. Took him.’ Pushing the words out took a great deal of effort, putting a strain on his already stressed body. Geralt reacted, helping Laureen to carry Anselm into the villa. She left him, running into the annex to yell for help while Geralt deposited him on the long table. Carefully he peeled the old man’s hand away from the wound to assess it. Couldn’t be deep if he managed to stay conscious and ride all the way back. He’d be fine, Geralt was sure. Indeed, the wound was smaller than anticipated.

Geralt looked at his brown pained eyes, ‘You lucky, old man. Belly.’ He hoped his words were enough to convey that his fat had saved him from the knife wound being deeper and nicking something important. From the huff he received it must have. As Laureen came back, followed by Sarahim and Beatrix, Geralt took a step back.

‘You be alright?’ he asked to which Laureen nodded.

‘Gratitude. Wait – where are you going?’

Stopping at the foot of the stairs to turn around, he simply said, ‘Jaskier.’

By the time he came back down with his sword across his back and some potions he had brewed weeks ago just in case, half the house was up and scurrying around. No one tried to stop him. Instead the dwarves wanted to join him. He shook his head, declining every offer as politely as the language barrier let him and marched towards the stables. As he led Roach, the chestnut mare he usually rode, towards the road with a hurried command he heard the resident’s cries following him into the darkness. Cries of good luck and find him and bring him back. 

The Witcher pushed the mare hard. In his head he apologised for the brutal pace, but his mouth spurned her on without mercy. Only when he reached the oh so familiar crossroad where he’d decided to seal his fate did he stop. His nose picked up the scent that, by now, was burned into his brain just as much as lilac and gooseberries – ink and smoke. There are other scents as well, not as pleasant – sweat, piss, dirt.

He stopped. The mare’s breath was laboured, warm clouds of air leaving her mouth. Patting her neck, Geralt dismounted and kneeled down on the ground. He opened a Cat, shuddering as the potion raced through his system for the first time after such a long period. He squinted his eyes, footprints, hoofprints, both fresh, grooves made from a carriage, fresh and old.

Kneeling on the ground, Geralt had to rely on the moonshine peeking through the clouds and the greyness of the potion to make out the carriage’s destination. Time was against him. Once again, he was chasing someone important to him. Compared to last time, though, he would find Jaskier (or Julian as he has learned by now) before anything could happen to him.

 _Not again_ , he swore to himself, _never again_.

Slowly the clouds drifted by, revealing the half-moons bright visage. Geralt’s eyes adjusted. And – there! He stood up, took the mare by the reigns and kept his eyes trained on the ground, following hoofprints and grooves and may the Gods be blessed for granting Jaskier a sharp mind, a piece of cloth. Taking it, he rubbed it between his fingers. He couldn’t feel any dried blood, only a fine sheet of dirt and smelt the obnoxious perfume Jaskier sometimes used, with his scent layered underneath.

Geralt grit his teeth, pocketing the cloth with anger coursing through his veins and started following the scents and the signs. His pursuit must have taken him an hour before the pathway became denser with woods. A fork way appeared, one leading further away; deeper into Nilfgaardian land, the other deeper into the forest.

This was the right one.

The Witcher walked on. Along the path leading into the darkness, and slightly uphill, accompanied by the sounds of night life: a hooting owl, foxes running through the underbrush and after a while – conversation, light.

Geralt adjusted his eyes again, stopping and tethering Roach to a nearby tree.

'Keep quiet,' he whispered urgently to the horse and ducked. Sneaking through the darkness in a crouched position, he neared the voices and the light until the edge of the treeline became visible and with it what appeared to be an abandoned mansion, its owner probably having died in the war. Here the smells he’d picked up at the crossroads were condensed into this single space. This was certainly his destination. 

The light was coming from inside the mansion and two torches outside mounted on the wall. The voices came from the two guards positioned outside. They were sitting on the ground, absorbed in a game of dice. Snippets of Nilfgaardian reached Geralt’s untrained ears. It was of no import. He crouched down further, watching them before he let his gaze wander to the mansion, focusing on sounds coming from the inside. Two more men talking to each other, muffled through walls and forest noises; footsteps from a third. Five in total. 

He could manage five. Even with his bad knee and partially numb hand. But what about Jaskier? He had to get closer; prayed that he was still alive.

Without losing any thought to the men’s motivations or backgrounds, Geralt carefully drew his sword and advanced.

If the men had done their job, they would have seen the figure approaching from the dark. If the men had been a little more careful, they would have heard the silent footsteps from behind. If the men hadn’t abducted one Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove that night, they wouldn’t have died as the witcher, fast as a viper, slashed their throats, splattering their blood on the ground.

They fell, gurgling, hands clutching the open wounds on their neck, confused, shocked, dead.

Geralt didn’t give them a second glance. He crept towards the mansion, listening intently to the remaining men inside: two men still conversing somewhere downstairs, footsteps on creaky floorboard walking down, joining the others, all three of them talking. Still no sign of Jaskier. Was he unconscious? Downstairs with the others? Or upstairs? 

Geralt couldn’t take the front door unless he wanted an open confrontation. Not an option as long as he didn’t know where Jaskier was held. Taking a deep breath, he walked along the wall, rounding a corner and avoiding the window facing towards the forest until he rounded another corner.

There. Another entrance at the back of the house, unguarded. Right next to it, another window. Pressing his body against the white stone, he carefully craned his neck to peek inside.

'—about time – danger – would have my money.'

The man who had spoken looked agitated and angry, the other two were sitting at the table, eating bread and cheese without a care in the world. Geralt crunched his teeth. No Jaskier. And no way to check upstairs without entering the house first.

So be it.

Geralt crept towards the back entrance and got into position. He had to take them by surprise. He had to be quick.

With the fingers of his good hand, he formed the Aard and released it. The air blasted from his fingertips, energy he hadn’t felt in months, erupting from a well within him. But he didn’t have time to feel the rush of magical power. Hastily he stepped across the threshold, facing the culprits whose faces bore similar expressions of panic, then as they saw the witcher, fear. Another Aard threw tables and men to the ground with a crash.

Geralt ran towards them.

His sword pushed through the first man’s chest like a hot knife through butter, making him wheeze and cough up his own blood, scrambling to put pressure on the wound. He beheaded the second as he tried to get on his knees. And advanced on the third as he rushed to his bag to get his weapon.

He never stood a chance.

With a pirouette, the blade whooshed through the air, gaining momentum and cutting through flesh, muscle and sinew. Two thuds. Expressionless Geralt looked at the leader as his eyes opened wide and terrified with realisation. They turned towards the ground where his hands and his sword lay and where blood began to stain his and Geralt’s clothes.

Geralt estimated that he had one minute before this one would bleed out, two or three before the other one succumbed to his punctured lung.

Locating the stairs, he rushed upstairs, scanning the second floor for Jaskier’s scent, any sound, and found it, coming from behind the door right across the staircase. He nearly flung it off his hinges as he pushed it open.

Jaskier lay across a bed. He was sporting a bloody, swollen lip, his hands and feet bound, obviously unconscious. Geralt walked over to him, kneeling down and touching his shoulder gingerly. He didn’t know yet if there were any other wounds.

'Jaskier!' he hissed, 'Jaskier! Wake up!'

Jaskier groaned, not opening his eyes. Geralt cursed. And shoved his arms underneath his unresponsive body. He was doll-like as Geralt got up, balancing him in his arms. His head was lolling back and forth until Geralt positioned it on his shoulders, arms loosely hanging by his side. He had to check later, but it seemed he was drugged.

As the witcher began walking downstairs he surveyed the carnage he’d left behind. The leader had crawled across the floor, trying to reach something, but had bled out first. Number one was lying in a puddle of his own blood, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

 _Shit_. 

Putting Jaskier down gently, leaning him against the wall, he walked over to the bodies, searching for any hint as to what prompted this. A few coins, a small knife, a silver necklace, obviously of worth. When he found nothing on them, he walked over to the bags scattered around the place. More coins, a few weapons, books, a letter – ha!

Finished with his search, he walked over to Jaskier, once again bending down to carry him and left the mansion.

As he passed the two dead guards, Geralt turned around one last time and with a pointed, powerful Igni sparked a fire that slowly set the mansion on fire.

He didn’t stay to watch it burn down. He heaved Jaskier onto the horse, settled in behind him and rode away.

Later, as he approached the crossroads, he turned around one last time to see a flickering flame in the distance, only visible to a witcher’s eyes. 

*

Jaskier regained consciousness in bursts. He thought he remembered someone calling his name, the smell of smoke, jolts from a harsh ride until he opened his eyes to birds singing, the usual hustle of the farm and – a sleeping Geralt? Jaskier blinked.

He was – home. In his room. Why?

He swallowed, realising how thirsty he was, how parched his throat. Pushing his hands against the bed sheets, he changed his position and sat upright. That’s when he saw the marks on his wrists from where he’d been bound. No dream then.

'Geralt?' he asked and had the witcher’s immediate attention as he snapped awake. His eyes focused on Jaskier, giving him a very thorough once-over. Any other situation and Jaskier might take advantage of that look.

'How are you?'

'Still a mite sleepy,' Jaskier answered, licking his lip and hissing at the small wound the gesture nearly reopened, 'but other than this – fine.'

Geralt nodded, satisfied with the answer. Slowly he relaxed. It was Jaskier turn to inspect him. He realised that he liked Geralt in his room, the intimacy of sitting together like this, despite the reason.

'What about you?'

'I’m fine.'

Golden eyes wandered to the garden outside, the witcher’s posture radiating embarrassment. Interesting.

'So - what happened?'

'What’s the last thing you remember?'

'Anselm and I went to town, I – took care of some business and. Oh. On the way back we were attacked. Yes, yes. Oh Gods! Is Anselm alright?'

'He’ll recover. Brave man. He managed to come back home and tells us that what had happened -that you were abducted.'

Jaskier held a hand to his heart, 'Thank the Gods.'

'Anything else?'

'Ah – I’m afraid no.'

'Do you have any idea who might have commissioned it? The purpose?'

Jaskier pursed his lips, thinking. It didn’t take long for him to create a long list of enemies in his head.

'Geralt,' he began, 'I am beloved by many. But fame and love also bring jealousy and hate. Who knows? I say let’s forget this horrible encounter and move one.'

'You’re telling me you’ve annoyed so many people that you have no idea who wants to see you dead? How? You’re --' Geralt stopped and sighed as he slowly reached into his pocket and produced a stained piece of paper which he handed to Jaskier.

Curious as to what was written on it, Jaskier took it and scanned the contents. While he realised the reason for his abduction, he could feel his face fall and his hands beginning to crumble the letter in his hands. Finished, he swallowed and didn’t dare to look at Geralt lest he see what was in it reflected in his eyes. 

'I want you to promise me something,' Geralt slowly said, catching the other’s attention, 'See it as an equal exchange.'

'Exchange? For what?'

“For saving your life, you fool. Now listen. Promise me the next time you must make errands, you’ll take me with you. Promise me, Jaskier.'

Geralt’s unnatural eyes looked at him empathically, hypnotically. There was something about this man that ensnared Jaskier, spell binding him to this incredible person.

He nodded.

'Good.'

With that Geralt stood and walked towards the door, leaving Jaskier shaking with nerves. He didn’t have time to contemplate his confusing feelings, towards Geralt – the very reason he’d been captured in the first place – any further before Saskia came rushing in, hurling insults at him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & Concrit appreciated. If you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out. Thanks!


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